


Gentle Hands (you are more than your trade)

by Shadowmightwrite17



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Chronic Pain, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier's Forearms Appreciation, M/M, One Shot, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Tenderness, that should be a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:35:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28372503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowmightwrite17/pseuds/Shadowmightwrite17
Summary: Geralt gently laid Jaskier's arm to rest and picked up the right one. He did the same range of motion tests. His right wrist preferred a straight position but resisted side-to-side or backward-forwards rotation. The socket of his thumb was swollen; his fingers preferred to curl in. The forearm muscles had the same lumpy tissue embedded in them as the left arm."A lot of musicians develop problems with their hands, but not until they're older," Jaskier whispered. His voice twisted, tears pooling in his eyes. "I'm barely in my twenties. I haven't even been playing the lute a full decade and this! This happens?!""It's not from age," which ended the rant before it fully began."It's not?""It's a repetitive motion injury. Anyone can get it, any trade, any age. Humans, Elves, Dwarves, Witchers."(Just a little fic about how Geralt shows his friendship)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 19
Kudos: 375





	Gentle Hands (you are more than your trade)

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a self-therapy projecting-my-tendonitis-onto-relatable-character fic, and then evolved into a study on how Geralt views his friendship with Jaskier plus context to the bath scene in episode four. Featuring: blink-and-you'll-miss-it Demisexual Geralt, ADHD Jaskier, and at least one The Amazing Devil reference.

It took Geralt three days to realize he hadn't heard Jaskier play his lute once since they set back on the Path. Enough singing, humming and talking to sate the average conversationalist for weeks to come, but no lute. It was odd, different, and that unsettled Geralt.

Maybe it needed some kind of… maintenance… he knew fuck all about lutes. They needed to be tuned before every performance, and the strings needed to be replaced at… certain intervals. Strings were made out of different materials, and like silver or steel, that affected things… 

He knew more about lutes than any Witcher to date, but fuck all in the end.

"Two-hour walk to town," he told Jaskier, cutting off his ramble about a poet from Brugge who liked metaphors with sex and food.

Jaskier blinked, the words settled. "Oh, lovely." It was subdued before he burst two steps forward with a wave of enthusiasm, "my first audience of the season, a fresh-faced crowd. What will I play first?"

That unsettled stiffness in Geralt's back intensified, a shiver of it running down his spine. The enthusiasm was false. Jaskier wasn't false. Not on the road, not when it was just them.

Geralt couldn't decide if this was better or worse than poems about food and sex and what word secretly meant what. Food was food. Sex was sex. Coding it and disguising it seemed pointless to him.

No, this was worse than the poetry. Definitely worse. As Jaskier planned his setlist aloud, enthusiasm in his voice when his shoulders spoke of dread, Geralt felt like the audience, and he hated it. Geralt was never the audience.

Geralt wasn't sure what he was to Jaskier in their fourth Spring together. Jaskier called him his muse but to other people. And his travel companion, but to other people. 

  * \- -



They arrived at noon, and the innkeeper had pointed Geralt in the direction of a contract while Jaskier negotiated their room fee. He was having a tough time with it, and Geralt wasn't surprised in the least. This was a farm and trade town. Food and supplies were depleted at the end of winter, and business was slowest throughout the season.

He met the alderman, and from the description of the past winter's events, it sounded like a wraith.

"Do you know what caused it to, you know, decide to haunt this realm that made it so miserable?" Jaskier asked over the lunch they paid for.

"Slow miserable death of starvation in the cold," he said, tone and facial expression flat.

Jaskier sighed. "It's too early to make me work for the details, Geralt."

"If I had details. Right now, it's theory."

"Hmm, well, I would love to join you for tonight's hunt, but our bed isn't paying for itself."

Geralt couldn't pick apart what about that sentence bothered him, but it did. As he walked away from the inn, he tried replacing the words of the sentence.

I would love to spend tonight in a warm inn, but this town has a monster problem.

But Jaskier loves performing. Vibrates with excitement most nights. Comes back to the room sweaty and tired and smiling from ear to ear. Spins in circles describing all the best moments.

Killing monsters is his life, but he doesn't find joy in it like Jaskier does music and performing.

  * \- -



He comes back from a successful hunt to an innkeeper red in the face demanding payment for the room after "that joke of a performance! If that deceptive con-artist thinks three songs will pay for a room--That room is worth far more than what I made in business for the length of that performance! It's a financial loss, and I will not--" The innkeeper cut off, stuck with one arm pointing to the apathetic patrons and hunched over like he was speaking to a child instead of a Witcher. The glimmer of candlelight on the coins Geralt handed over was sufficient then, and a quiet night in their room was bought.

Geralt walked upstairs without another word.

Jaskier was lying on his back, arms extended straight at his sides, staring up at the ceiling, forlorn. Geralt almost accused him of being unnecessarily dramatic before he smelled the salt in the air.

Salty tears of frustration and pain.

Geralt set his swords aside and approached the bed. Jaskier barely gave him a glance, eyes brimming with tears, the dried tracks of them stretching from the outer corner of his eyes to his temples.

"Pain?"

Jaskier took a deep breath, sniffling as he gathered himself. "Yeah."

"Where?"

But his eyes were already focused on the odd position of Jaskier's arms. 

Like they'd been disconnected from his body and left to collect dust.

"Hands, wrists."

"That's why you couldn't perform," he guessed.

"Yeah." He swallowed thickly, looking up at Geralt. "I'm sorry about the room."

"Don't be. I took care of it." He started to take off his armor, shedding piece by piece.

"But I was supposed to."

"And I'm supposed to get paid for monster contracts," he muttered, arranging his things in the corner.

"That's different!" Jaskier pushed himself to sit up, wincing and leaving his hands to hang limply at his sides as he watched Geralt. "You don't ask for payment until after the contract is done, and then even when you've killed their monster, the assholes try to cheat you out of coin you actually earned. I didn't earn shit tonight."

Geralt settled onto the bed. "You were injured."

"I'm not--"

"You were in pain. Performing was causing you pain." He looked down at Jaskier's limp arms. "You're still in pain."

"Yeah, but--"

"If I was limping, would you send me off to fight the wraith tonight?"

"Of course not!"

"And I won't ask you to work when working causes you pain."

"I-I…"

"Let me see your arm."

Jaskier let him take it, staring over Geralt's shoulder, mouth opened and forming words that didn't connect. "It's… You can't… It's not…"

Geralt began rotating his left arm and wrist, slow and gentle, to test the range of motion and how Jaskier reacted. Flexing his left wrist straight or extending his fingers to lay flat brought winces and resistance. If he held Jaskier's hand palm up and left the fingers alone, they would curl inwards. He ran his fingers down the muscles of Jaskier's forearm, feeling the shape of it and how they rolled under his thumbs in a way they shouldn't.

He gently laid Jaskier's arm to rest and picked up the right one. He did the same range of motion tests. His right wrist preferred a straight position but resisted side-to-side or backward-forwards rotation. The socket of his thumb was swollen; his fingers preferred to curl in. The forearm muscles had the same lumpy tissue embedded in them as the left arm.

"A lot of musicians develop problems with their hands, but not until they're older," Jaskier whispered. His voice twisted, tears pooling in his eyes. "I'm barely in my twenties. I haven't even been playing the lute a full decade and this! This happens?!"

"It's not from age," which ended the rant before it fully began.

"It's not?"

"It's a repetitive motion injury. Anyone can get it, any trade, any age. Humans, Elves, Dwarves, Witchers. All of them." 

"Even Witchers?"

"Witchers heal faster and are trained to avoid it, but that doesn't stop it from happening. Wouldn't be taught about it if otherwise. Shoulder problems are common with sword fighting, knee and foot with too much running and jumping, back problems with carrying heavy weights."

"But can it heal? For humans, I mean?"

"With time, rest, and regular stretches. After that, it's maintenance, taking care of your hands and arms."

A faint, hopeful smile begun to grow.

"Jaskier, you need to change how you perform."

The weight of Geralt's tone brought a spark of fear to Jaskier's eyes, and immediately he tried to cover it with bravado. "Silly Witcher, what do you know about performing?"

"That you do vocal exercises before every performance, but not adequate hand stretches. That needs to change. You perform for hours at a time, stopping only for a drink and to catch your breath. Those hours you spend with your hands in one position, doing one type of motion, that's repetitive motion. Stretch during your breaks, move your hands in ways different from playing the lute. Take longer breaks and shorter performances if possible."

Jaskier closed his eyes and tilted his head back, and Geralt knew he'd found something.

"Don't worry about tonight," Geralt said.

Jaskier pulled away, shaking his head. "It's not tonight. It's this whole stupid bloody winter."

Geralt tilted his head, waiting for Jaskier to elaborate.

"This was the first winter that I was given patronage, and by an Earl no less. That's a big deal for your first patronage."

"And he was a demanding patron," Geralt guessed.

"I played every night for hours on end. Most lunches too. And private performances for him alone. Most of the time, I wasn't singing. He just wanted music in the background. It felt like… I know bards aren't much better position-wise than servants, employed to be seen instead of invisible, but still employed. I wasn't anyone special, just… I wasn't even a bard sometimes, just decoration. There, in the background, noticeable but not stealing attention unless directed to. It was a shit winter.

"There's this whole class of elitism among bards, the ones that have patrons and the ones who live performance to performance. Traveling bards are just… The ones with patrons are the good ones, the ones without are what's left for the masses. It seems unfathomable that someone would choose to travel when patronage was offered."

"You would choose traveling over--"

"In a heartbeat," Jaskier answered, eyes meeting Geralt with steady resolve.

"There will be other patrons, less awful ones. Don't let this Earl spoil things."

"I'm not. I choose traveling. All the kings of the continent could fight over me, and I wouldn't chain myself for anything to anyone."

Geralt held Jaskier's gaze for a long moment. Then what was Jaskier doing here, choosing a hard life on the road over warm comforts? How was Geralt not another chain, binding Jaskier to a path chasing after monsters and danger?

"Hmm." He stood. "I'm going to ask the innkeeper for a bath. Have you eaten?"

"No."

"Hmm." Geralt left.

After dinner, Geralt dug through his bags for the chamomile based balm Jaskier had bought him the year before for a shoulder injury. Geralt didn't have much that was safe for humans, but this was.

He sat down beside Jaskier. "Give me your arm."

There was a brief moment of confusion but not the look of suspicion most humans gave Geralt when he offered help. Jaskier sat up again and handed his left arm over first. Geralt rubbed a generous amount of the balm over Jaskier's arm and began to smooth it across the skin, running his thumbs over the muscles to identify the knots.

As Geralt began kneading the worst knots, smoothing them over to relax them, Jaskier wrinkled his nose.

"Hurts?"

"Yeah."

"The muscles are tight and tense. That's causing the pain. Once they're relaxed, this won't cause pain."

Jaskier smiled. "I don't think I've ever heard 'suck it up, the pain isn't that bad' said so nicely to me before."

Geralt raised an eyebrow. "This was a common phrase you heard?"

A long sigh. "Let's not talk about that."

"Hmm." He smoothed his thumbs up and down the arm in the direction of the muscle tissue. "You've been playing the lute for a decade?"

"Almost a decade. I started when I was thirteen. I'm twenty-two. You know, at Oxenfurt they stress the proper positions for holding your instrument and the proper poster for breath control when singing, but they also stress how long hours of dedication is what makes a musician. If your life isn't music, you're a waste."

"Your life is yours."

"And music is what I want to spend my life doing."

"Your body is as much your instrument as your lute. Without your hands, there is no lute."

A soft, bitter laugh. "Believe me, I know. The last few weeks of this has taught me that. Without my hands, I have… nothing."

Geralt looked up from his work, examined Jaskier's expression as much as his arms. He wasn't just sad; he was lost.

"You have more than music. Your voice, your brain, your words…" Geralt took a deep breath. "Your heart." 

"My heart?"

"Friends, family--"

"And you?"

Geralt met Jaskier's eyes, faced the open hope and fear of rejection. "And me."

Jaskier laughed. "At the risk of you once again saying, 'we're not friends Jaskier,'" he started, dropping his voice to a low gravel--

And usually Geralt would say that.  _ I'm not your friend. _ But tonight didn't seem like a night Jaskier could bear to hear that. Tonight Jaskier was… It felt like Geralt was holding more than just Jaskier's arm in his hands. Like cradled in his hands was a songbird, trusting and innocent and so, so vulnerable. He was afraid to touch it too roughly. Afraid to break something given in trust.

"I like when you say that."

There was a sharp inhale. "What?"

"When you call me your friend. And if I say 'we're not friends,' you'll say 'yes we are,' insist that we're friends."

He held Jaskier's gaze.

"Geralt, you are my very best friend in the whole wide world," Jaskier whispered.

Just the faintest smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Hmm." And Geralt resumed his work.

"And… and would you ever say it back?" Jaskier asked, uncertain again.

Geralt focused on Jaskier's arm, gathering his words. "I'll show you." Treating his pain, taking care of him while Jaskier recovered and took a break from performing.

"Bards have words, and Witchers have actions?"

"Hmm."

After both arms were tended to and the bath had arrived, Geralt instructed Jaskier to rest and let his arms relax in hot water. As he was getting out, Geralt tested both arms, felt how pliant the muscles were, relaxed.

"Are they supposed to be red and splotchy like that?" Jaskier asked.

"It's increased circulation. It's a good thing."

"Okay."

Geralt enjoyed the bath until the water was cold and joined Jaskier in bed, smiling when Jaskier immediately rolled over to sling an arm over Geralt's chest. His wrist was bent, his hand falling over the edge of his chest and fingers brushing the mattress. Gently, Geralt moved Jaskier's hand to rest on his shoulder, hand and wrist flat against his chest in a comfortable neutral position. Jaskier smiled and shifted so that his ear rested over Geralt's heart. His other hand was tucked under Geralt's other shoulder. Jaskier was a warm weight on Geralt's chest, shifting with every slow breath Geralt took, stable and consistent.

He brushed his fingers through Jaskier's damp hair, brushing stray hairs away from his face, thumb moving in slow circular motions over his temple. 

And Jaskier whispered, "I like when you do that."

Geralt realized his hand had stopped moving. "Touching your hair?"

"No--well, yes, that too. I like when you rest your hand over my ear, with my head on your chest like this. I feel safe."

Geralt smiled, his thumb brushing over Jaskier's temple one more time before going still again. This was the safest Geralt ever felt on the Path, in a warm bed with Jaskier tucked up against him. Quiet, steady. Like the world has shrunk and it's just them.

_You have your words. I have my hands. I'll show you, like this. Hold you close._

**Author's Note:**

> It's a shame it's called a kudos and not 'like' or some other one-syllable word, because "toss a kudos to your writer" just doesn't roll right (and neither to the muscles in my forearms). 
> 
> find me on tumblr (which broke while posting this) @background-noise-headache
> 
> Thank you for reading <3


End file.
